


AN ANTICHRISTMAS CAROL

by WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), F/M, Ghosts of Christmas, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orphans, Poverty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: AN ANTICHRISTMAS CAROLin proseBeing a Love Story of Christmas(incidentally featuring multiple characters of ghostly personage)---"I love Anathema, sir." Newton confessed quietly. "Is that so terrible, to love another?""Love!" Fell repeated, not without bitterness. "A lie and a pretty dream, no better than this accursed Christmas season. There's commerce and sentimentality, and you may never have them both together. I have chosen betwixt the two many years ago, and am happier for it!"Bah, love! Bah, Christmas! Bah, humbug!"
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 89





	1. Stave 1: Gabriel, and The Ghost Of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas/various other winter holidays, everyone!
> 
> This thing started out as a silly angsty idea, and grew considerably - I hope I'll manage to write the rest of it tomorrow, or at least in the next few days.  
> That said, enjoy!
> 
> (And, during some passages, keep in mind that I DID promise a happy ending, which I will most definitely deliver on. Promise.)

Gabriel, the Esteemed Reader must be told, was most certainly dead; there could be no doubt about it.

In fact, he had been dead for multiple years, dead and stiff in the frozen ground - ice-covered even in summer, for the ground never warms around the body of such a cold man as he had been in life - and he most certainly had never had a mind to rise from the grave like Our Lord And Saviour.

(Such was for saintlier men than Gabriel, who had made plays at righteousness and never quite achieved to fool those who saw his heart, or what little there was left of it.)

The point remains that he was quite outrageously dead.

No longer was he pining for the cloudy fjords of Heaven; he had departed, was deceased, kicked the bucket, breathed his last, went to meet his maker and was now bearing a startling resemblance to a door-nail.

He, to expunge even the last morsel of doubt from the mind of our Reader, was an Ex-Gabriel.

And Aziraphale Fell was quite aware of this, of course.

He had been Gabriel's business partner in life, the one to find him dead at his desk all these years past, and might've been the only mourner at his funeral, had he not been occupied writing up a letter to the debt collectors pertaining to the poor family whose business detail Gabriel had deceased over.

(He felt the acquisition of funds would honour the man's memory more than standing by his grave for a time far too long and better spent with business.)

So Gabriel was dead, and Fell the sole owner of the firm - had been, now, for many years. Seven, to be exact, this very night.

Aziraphale Fell, for those Esteemed Readers who have not yet made his acquaintance, was a terrible man, bitter as blue almonds and colder than winter nights, and without a shred of joy or happiness in his chest - we dare not say  _ heart _ .

His face might've been intended for a cherubim, had disdain and cold, cold greed not carved it ugly; and his portly stature a matter of consuming as much cheap fare as he required, rather than enjoyment of culinary delights. He dressed well, but threadbare, as he was not wont to waste even a penny on frivolities; and in many layers, to spare firewood and kindling.

In short, he was a man twisted by long years of avarice, who was of means that were quite plentiful, but never yet enough. A man as merciless as the sword of God's own judgement, who was cruel not by design, but merely absence of kindness.

And it was this Aziraphale Fell who walked to his firm one winter morning, unbothered by the joy and well-wishes that flew about the crisp, snow-dappled air. The cold gnawed at him, but it mattered not to Fell - he was always cold, and carried a ceaseless shiver with him that gripped others as he passed them.

"Pulsifer!" He shouted for his clerk as he was through the door. "Pulsifer! I warn you, boy, if it turned out you had not arrived here at the usual hour, I shall not give you the day to-morrow…"

He paused.

There was a young woman in the firm, close by the pitiful coals in the hearth to warm herself, expectantly gazing upon him.

"Out!" Ordered Fell. "We do not want your business here."

(For her dress was fine but old and often patched, a sure sign that she would be unable to repay whatever she was lent. The firm's impeccable reputation allowed for choosing their business, and Fell took great care to allow only those borrowers who were sure to turn up a profit.)

"I do not come for business, Mr Fell!" She responded with undue cheer. "Only to wish you A Merry Christmas, and-"

"Bah, humbug!" Fell snapped, and went behind his desk. "Christmas! What use is that but to pick the pockets of the hard-working? Tell me what you want, woman, and be gone!"

"Ms Device was, er, was," stuttered the firm's clerk, young Newton Pulsifer, half from nervous disposition and half from the cold. "Only hoping to, to maybe…"

"I wanted to ask for a small donation, Mr Fell." Spoke the girl, and it was quite the wrong utterance to make.

"No!" Snapped Fell, with the force of a door slamming in one's face. "Now begone!"

"Oh, but, sir!" Ms Device exclaimed plaintively. "Is it not the duty of those of affluent means to spread the cheer this season?"

"Certainly not!" Fell scoffed.

"The orphans would be ever so grateful!"

At this, Fell briefly stilled.

"NO, NO!" He thundered, having regained his furious composure. "Not a penny out of me, not for orphans nor ragamuffins nor even the most pitiful little urchin,  _ out!" _

And out she went, huffing and muttering quite rude things, Pulsifer fawning and apologising behind her all the way.

"Lad?" Fell called to him.

"Yes, Mr Fell, S-sir?" Stammered he.

"Here's some advice for you, so that you may keep your position with me:" Fell smiled.

(It was no true expression of warmth, of course; Fell had not smiled true for many, many years, so that his visage would scarcely know how to conduct itself in such an eventuality.)

"I do  _ not _ give out alms, no matter the cause. I carried myself into the position I hold to-day on the shoulders of my own hard work, and those teary-eyed wretches may blessed well do the same!" Already, the facsimile smile was falling apart to reveal a stern scowl. "And, Pulsifer, if you wish to  _ pay _ a young lady to bed you, I recommend a visit to Madame Tracy's establishment, where I am sure you will find a girl you can afford from your own pockets, rather than attempting to siphon means from mine!"

"Sir!" The young man exclaimed in scandal. "That is not what I-"

"She was going to have money, you were to have her in return; I do not see a distinction. Now extinguish the coals, I intend them to last 'til well into the new year."

Newton did so, and regarded Fell with a sad eye all throughout it.

"I love Anathema, sir." He spoke quietly, as he had returned to carefully tending the ledgers. "And wish to aid her in her cause. Is that so terrible, to love another?"

" _ Love!" _ Fell repeated, not without bitterness. "A lie and a pretty dream, no better than this accursed Christmas season. There's commerce and sentimentality, and you may never have both together. I have chosen betwixt the two many years ago, and am happier for it! If your Ms Anathema Device is of more worth to you than employment, put in your notice to-day, and be refused by her to-morrow for having no funds to give her poor! 

"Bah, love! Bah, Christmas! Bah, humbug!"

And no more words were spoken among them, until such time that business was concluded, and they both departed from the firm into the bitter cold, when young Newton wished another Merry Christmas, and Fell offered naught but scoffing in return.

With the evening star came snow and fog upon London town, and Fell cursed the weather and the date as he made his way through the streets, beset with caroling children and mirthful men and women, bestowing compliments of the season upon all who crossed their path.

(All, safe for Aziraphale Fell, whose bearing was so unpermitting that none so much as dared gaze upon him.)

* * *

No goose or pudding for Fell that evening, no Christmas crackers, no merry songs and no visiting loved ones.

He dined alone, and retired to his chair by the meagre fire only to peruse the business section of the newspaper, occasionally huffing disdain at the laughter and song drifting through the thin walls from the street.

Fell's house was a drab, empty affair, inherited from Gabriel, and adorned with naught but a fanciful painting of the Virgin Mary cowering before an archangel informing her of the Coming of Christ, situated above the fireplace and greying from soot and ashes.

_ ………..Aziraphale……. _

Fell shivered. The snow-laden wind was strong this Christmas Eve, and whispered strange words into the ears of superstitious fools.

_...Aziraphale. _ repeated the wind, and Fell thought to have spied movement, gazed up at the painting…

And lo! Where the archangel had been there was now Gabriel, as if he had always been painted there, gazing down at him with a terrible, glowing pallor not even the most skilled of artists could ever hope to capture, but so lifelike as if he had not died seven full years ago but still stood beside Fell as he took down numbers, forever correcting and admonishing.

Fell gasped; but 'ere the air had left him, the hallucination was at an end, archangel gazing dolefully upon the Virgin Mother under layers of grime.

"...humbug." Fell muttered, settling uneasily once more.

The light of the low fire had played tricks on his mind; or there had been some ill humour in the cheap gruel he had dined on. Whether it was his mind or his stomach that thought to play tricks on him he cared little, only that it  _ was _ a trick.

Gabriel, as has been so firmly established, was dead.

So how could it be then that a ghostly phantom stood beside the other armchair, his spitting image, and speaking the word " _ Aziraphale _ " like it was the last rattle of a dying soul?

"Gabriel!" Fell rose in panic from his own fireside chair, hands clasped before him in a sudden gesture of timidness he had expunged from his bearing long years ago, when the shadow of his former employer-then-business-partner had finally removed itself from over his shoulder and been laid to rest in the cold earth. "You, here?"

And it  _ was _ Gabriel, as handsome of face and as commanding of stature as he had been in life, were he not bent beneath the weight of many heavy chains draped about his arms and shoulders.

"Aziraphale," spoke the apparition, with a terrible rattle of chains, settling in the other chair. "It has been some time."

"I-indeed it has." Fell wrung his hands. "I do hope you, you are in good health?"

"I am dead."

"So you are." An uneasy chuckle, quite forced, and carried out as if he was merely attempting to replicate the way he had heard others make the sound. "One would not know simply from looking upon you."

Gabriel did not appear as if he appreciated the pretence at flattery.

"Tea?" Offered Fell uncertainly. He had not entertained a guest in many years, much less a ghostly one, and found his manners and habits no longer up to the task.

"I may no longer sully my ectoplasmatic body with gross matter."

"Ah." Fell set down the tea, old leaves steeped an umpteenth time to make for a weak, watery brew that was not too dear to have regularly. "...is there a particular reason you are here, Gabriel?"

"Only to warn you, and cleanse my own soul by it."

"Warn? Of what?" A scoff, but hesitant and fearful. "The End of Days? Mistress Nutter cries enough on that matter in the square, I find myself most suitably warned."

The shade of Gabriel played no need to such quipping, raising his bemanacled arms. "You do see these chains, Aziraphale?"

"...I do."

"All my life I have forged them, link by link; with every cruel jape, every careless harshness, every word I ever spoke deriding others, it grew heavier and heavier upon my shoulders, yet I could not feel it until my soul departed its corporation, and they dragged me down to Hell."

"Hell!" Fell gasped. For all that he was a bitter old sinner, some measure of fear persisted still of the Holy and Unholy, and to hear it spoken of so darkly by the spectre instilled a great terror in what we surely cannot call his heart.

"There I was made to walk under the weight, far and further, and whenever I felt like I might finally have gained strength of being sufficient to bear this burden, they are remade from heavier metals and fitted tighter upon my person. I am weary, Aziraphale, of these chains, and of the demons of Hell, Dagon and Hastur and Ligur who hound my every step, and the flies!"

A shudder went through him, and through every link in his long, long chains.

"I would not wish the Lord of Flies upon even my worst enemy."

"But why?" Fell queried. "You were not a sinful man, Gabriel. You attended church, lived by the laws of God and Man. Why-"

"She," Gabriel interrupted, fearful eye cast Heavenwards, "demands more of us than merely keeping the letter of Her laws, Aziraphale."

Fell swallowed hard, and made to sit; his legs would not support him any longer.

"And as I smithed these chains of mine, so did I teach you to make your own. Look, Aziraphale, there is iron all about you!"

He spoke true; ghostly chains encircled Fell, weightless in their dull glitter, thrice around his neck and another five loops around his chest and arms, gone again from his sight in the blink of an eye, but still forever there.

"Too late for me, far too late." Gabriel continued gravely. "Perhaps, at the End of Days, She will judge me kindly, but there shall be no mercy, no rest for me, until the Eleventh Hour. You, however…"

A finger rose to aim squarely at Fell's chest.

"You may still be saved. Three spirits will visit you to-night, Aziraphale. Heed well what they present to you, learn for their lessons; and mayhaps you shall wake a better man."

A moment of dreadful silence.

"Or, perhaps, it is too late already, and you shall never wake again."

The apparition stood.

"I have been terrible to you, and made you terrible in turn." He spoke, a mournful regret in his bearing that had never haunted Gabriel in life. "May we meet again on a better occasion, when both our souls are cleansed before Her. Farewell."

And so, the ghost, with a last clinking and clanking worse even than a rattling steam-train, departed.

Fell rose on shaking legs, making for the decanter and pouring a generous glass.

He drained it, and poured another.

"Bah!" He muttered finally, his trembling form only slightly quieted. "A nightmare! Naught more! Gabriel is dead, and no such thing as ghostly chains, no, utter humbug."

Another long drink, doing little to settle him.

"I shall go to bed," he spoke resolutely, setting the decanter down, "and the only spirit bothering me shall be that which I have just imbibed!"

And with that declaration, he retired; but kept a candle burning on his nightstand, to keep the unusual dark of Christmas Night at bay, which he would never usually do.

(Candles were dear, and before that night, he had never yet been so afraid to be in darkness, and see no guiding light about him.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was as if he had scarcely rested when all the church bells in London town began to toll from one instant to the next, too loud even through the dust-laden glass of Fell's windows, making a terrible sort of noise.

Ding-dong, they all rang in unison, and ding and dong and ding again, twelve strokes…

...and then, another.

Closer, softer, and all the more terrible for the silence that followed.

Aziraphale - and we must call him Aziraphale, for there is no way to address a man in his night-things other than with his given name - had hid from the horrible pealing cacophony, but this, this last, tender chime called him forth.

And so, he laid eyes upon the First Spirit.

It was a strange creature, made as of light, with a face that seemed unwilling to settle, fading the longer you gazed upon it, features worn smooth by its unnatural glow that its entire being seemed comprised of.

"Who are you?" Whispered Aziraphale, in awe in spite of himself.

"As who do I appear to you, Aziraphale Fell?" Came the Spirit's response, bright like silver bells, and gruff like a growl, both at once.

Aziraphale frowned, reached for his glasses, and peered at the Spirit's form.

It appeared to him a child, or perhaps an old man - or woman? - fair as well as dark, slender and massive, beautiful as the day, ugly as night, and yet, and yet…

So eerily familiar, like a half-forgotten face rising from the murky depths of memory.

"Why…" he spoke slowly. "You remind me of a woman I knew when I was but a boy! A convent sister by the name of Mary, she would allow me a biscuit at supper if I had been good."

And indeed, as he spoke, the apparition's features became sharp and clear, light dimming, until she was the very image of Sister Mary Loquacious, dressed in a well-mended habit, her face just as he remembered - save for her eyes, which still shone like twin stars with unnatural light and never-dimming fire.

"Then that is who I am," the Spirit spoke with Sister Mary's voice, and there was only the slightest echoing timbre to it now, the faint, faded aftertaste of strangeness. "And yet, this is but a guise. In truth, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Humbug, Aziraphale felt compelled to say, but the word chafed in his throat, and would not spill from his lips.

"Come now!" Smiled the Spirit with the Sister's friendly face. "The night is young, and we have much to see!"

And 'ere he could protest, she'd taken his hand, and the bedroom peeled away about them; they were airborne, flying, soaring, and the houses seemed like toys beneath them.

What a strange dream! Thought Aziraphale, and it was good he did, for otherwise he might have recalled he was incapable of flight, and plummeted to the ground posthaste.

"Spirit!" He called out, over the gentle howl of snow-heavy wind. "Whereto are we bound?"

"Far away, and further ago," spoke she, and perhaps it was the sound of the old-familiar voice that kept Aziraphale from responding in quite a tartly manner, as was his wont when receiving answer as cryptic as this.

* * *

Their feet set down on a thin blanket of snow that did not dent or break under them, before a grand old manor with iron-cast gates and angels mingling with gargoyles in the fine masonry.

"By God, I know this place!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "It is the orphanage I was raised in! See, at yonder window, the kind Mother Superior; and there, the statue of St. Beryl Articulatus in the courtyard! Why, it's all returning to me now - strange, if you had asked me of my upbringing yesterday, I would scarcely have recalled the manor, nor the nuns who were as mothers to me."

Sister Mary laughed at his delight, a glimpse of the child that had long died to give way to the man; and then bid him follow her through the gates.

One step only, and they were inside, on old wooden floors that might have creaked had they had any weight to them.

It was a long and wide hall, with five beds to each side, much-mended yet clean blankets folded primly on nine of them.

And on the tenth sat a child; that was young Aziraphale.

If the Esteemed Reader should imagine an angel, a cherub, that had stepped down from their cloud and acquired a pair of eyeglasses, a heavy-knit woollen vest, and a healthy appetite, they would not be far off the mark in imagining Aziraphale in his childhood.

A sweet youth that had not yet bittered through the years, rosy-cheeked and curious, and utterly enchanted by the book cradled in his hands as if it were a holy relic.

Such innocence! Alas, that Aziraphale had lost it since, and should never have its like again.

"Oh!" Exclaimed the older Fell in wonder. "Spirit, I recall this day, as clear as if it had only just come to its end. I was sickly, as I often was in childhood, and begged off from the usual merriment of the season."

(He did not add that he had done so with great reluctance and mournful temper, though it should be noted that it was so.)

"They were all to mass, but I stayed behind, reading."

"The Bible?" Sister Mary prompted, a twinkle in the unearthly glow of her eyes.

"No, no, a brief volume of wintery folktales." Aziraphale corrected. "An early Christmas present to keep me company in the others' absence, from…"

A shadow laid itself over his face, not unlike a heavy shroud.

"...from one long gone from my life." He finished, subdued and pensive now. "Spirit, I've not thought of  _ him _ in many a year;  _ must _ you remind me?"

"That is a later lesson, Aziraphale." Said the Spirit, serenity in Sister Mary's guise.

The boy on the bed laughed at a passage he had read, and such joy in it that a smile stole its way onto his older self, true and full of cheer for the first time in much, much too long.

And as soon as this smile had bloomed, a sliver of melancholy joined it, until it was more sadness than delight.

"Whatever is the matter?" Sister Mary asked, and surely knew the answer.

"Oh, it's only…" Aziraphale sighed. "I've not read for pleasure in nigh on ten years, only ever the ledgers and the newspapers. Even those tales - bought from ill-gotten gains, I'm sure - I threw them out and never thought to read again. I…"

A tremulous breath.

"I merely wish that I had never forgotten what joy books once filled me with, that is all."

And the Spirit beamed like a warm candle's glow, and like good, kind Sister Mary when Aziraphale brought her the sums he'd dutifully done for school.

"Remember this joy now," she said, "and mind that you do not forget again."

* * *

And with that said, she took his hand again, and the years flew by them like a rushing current, a merciless, unstoppable river; until it was another Christmas Eve, still so many years ago.

The orphanage stood, though decay and poor finances were more evident now in the facade; and where it was aged and crumbling, Aziraphale Fell had prospered.

His younger version stood a few paces outside the iron fence, nearly a man grown now - if still youthful - clad in a fine winter's coat with a bow tied at his throat, and a top hat to keep the snow from his golden locks.

And with him…

Aziraphale let out a shuddering gasp, sinking against the fence with the sort of stricken pallor to him not even the appearance of Gabriel had called forth.

"Spirit, mercy." He breathed through bloodless lips. "Not this, oh, not  _ this, _ I beg you…"

...with him stood one of the loveliest creatures the Esteemed Reader should ever have the pleasure to behold: a young man, of an age with the Aziraphale of the past, whip-thin and tall, with good cheekbones and eyes that gleamed in the moonlight as two gold coins; dressed a mockery of well, coattails threadbare and faded at the seams, though he still wore them with an ease that was pleasant to look upon.

His name, the Esteemed Reader might be told, was Anthony J. Crowley.

Furthermore, as they might glean from the too-easy grin and the quickness of his long, elegant fingers, he was a scoundrel through and through; had, in fact, always been one, ever since he first picked the Tadfield gentry's pockets to purchase a brief volume of tales as a Christmas gift for his dearest little friend.

And, as we look on, the two men come together in a kiss, as sweet as ever a Christmas treat could be.

"Mercy!" Aziraphale moaned, one hand splayed over his chest as if to keep his heart firmly within it; a terrible, soul-deep yearning in his gaze. "Spirit, another lesson, another Christmas, I will see no more of this, oh, what cruelty!"

But the Spirit found no mercy in its heart, and merely bid him watch with a single indomitable moving of her head.

The lovers parted, yet not far, their brows still resting against each other.

"Oh, my angel..." Crowley breathed.

(And the older Aziraphale nearly felt faint at the sound of it.)

"Will you not come in?" He pleaded, and such hope, such devotion in his voice! "You barely visit, and the Sisters miss you ever so dearly… they've not much, of course, but you and I shall always be welcome to what there is, they've assured me. Will you? The new children should adore you."

And it ought to be a testament to the change that had already come upon the younger Aziraphale that, in the face of such earnest tenderness, there was barely disguised cool disinterest in his response.

"Gabriel insists I speak to a reputable client with him to-night." The young man spoke, even as his older self cursed him a terrible fool. "If I wish to better my position in his firm, I'd be well-advised to do so."

"The firm!" Crowley pulled away, old hurt sparking to life again in his eyes. "It is always the firm with you, and the money, and your standing. What of joy, angel? What of Christmas?"

A hesitation, as if he feared the answer.

"What of love?"

Something cold came then into young Aziraphale, a hint of an older, bitterer man.

"...bah, humbug." He muttered darkly. "Love and joy do not buy Christmas dinners, Crowley, nor meals on any other day! The orphanage is failing, you and I both know it; I endeavour to make as much money as I can to support the Sisters. It is for their good - and yours, seeing as you have  _ still _ not found a steady position - that I am not so damnably idle!"

"Nor am I!" Crowley protested, visibly stung. "I earn!"

"You steal and swindle!" Aziraphale snapped, and his older self flinched as Crowley did. "I ask, is that respectable employment? No, Crowley, it is not! And I should be afraid to be seen in the streets with you, much less to… to  _ fraternise _ with your ilk!"

"...you do not mean that." A whispered plea, reaching out, gently clasping one hand in both of his and kissing the knuckles. "It is the money, the  _ damned _ money, and that horrid Gabriel, twisting you into a man I  _ know _ you are not! Angel, my sweet angel, we love each other, do you not recall? We are as married in Her eyes, you asked to wed me when we were children at the orphanage together, and… and I beg you, free yourself from Mammon's siren call!"

(Such earnest adoration, such tender feeling, and Aziraphale was raw with it, hearing these words a second time and deeply regretting the answer he first gave.)

"You recall, surely, the life we dreamt of, back then? There was no firm, no Gabriel, only us and a little cottage, a bookshop we tended together, was it not a sweet dream? Was it not all that one could desire from a life? We are of an age now to make it true, you and I. Hand in your notice to-day, the Sisters will not begrudge you your happiness, and we shall be in the South Downs by Boxing Day,  _ angel… _ "

"A silly dream." Young Aziraphale huffed, extracting his hand from Crowley's grasp. "It pains me to hear you speak as a careless child. I advise you to mature; it is a very unkind world, these days, for foolish little orphans such as you."

"...God help me." Crowley whispered, agony in all his bearing. "Aziraphale, yield. I cannot love you when you speak like this!"

"Ah!" A bitter, winter-cold laugh. "Is the matter closed between us, then, at last? I must admit, I was waiting for it!"

"Oh, don't…"

"No, no, let's have it out! Evidently, our suit does not hold up under our advanced years, now that our stations have begun to differ." And yes, there was the same cruelty that had admonished young Pulsifer, a terrible facsimile of Gabriel's bitter moods. "Perhaps it would be preferable not to associate any further!"

"No, please!" Crowley begged, appearing as if terror had gripped his very heart. "Do not… anything, but do not break from me, I couldn't bear it… angel, oh my darling angel, I  _ love _ you, we are affianced to one another, please-"

"Affianced!?" Mocked the younger Aziraphale, as the older closed his eyes in horror. "We are not affianced!  _ We _ are a reputable businessman and a common thief, and those two men have nothing whatsoever in common!"

And then, the killing blow.

"I do not even love you; not anymore."

It struck, and struck true.

Crowley paled, and dug one hand into the ribs over his heart, not unlike Aziraphale upon first setting eyes on him.

"Angel…" He pleaded weakly, calling after Aziraphale's retreating back.

"You," came the cold, frigidly ice-cold answer, without even a glance over the shoulder "may address me as Mr Fell henceforth, should we have the misfortune to ever meet again."

And with no other word, they parted ways.

And as soon as the winter night had swallowed Aziraphale's younger self, Crowley fell to his knees in the snow, as a marionette with its strings cut, weeping terribly in great, heaving sobs that he seemed hardly able to draw breath in between.

And whatever Aziraphale now had in his chest, heart or not; it broke into a thousand little shards there and then.

Tears streamed freely over his cheeks as they had not in countless years, and his aged body shook with an agony he had never experienced even when he had left his childhood love weeping in the snow, so many decades and not yet five minutes past.

"Oh, God!" He cried out, pained. "And I said to Pulsifer that I was  _ happy _ in my choice, casting love aside for, for- Lord, that I had not told him so! That I had praised his virtuous Ms Device, and given him the evening to court her - pure, innocent love, alas, that I would still know it! How could I have forgotten!?"

A breath, small and choked.

"...I merely wish he does not repeat my foolish mistakes, oh Heaven help, that is all."

And the Spirit smiled sadly, like the flicker of a faraway star; and like loving, consoling Sister Mary when Aziraphale came to her with scrapes on his knees and tears in his eyes.

"Remember love now," she said seriously, "and mind that you do not forget again."

She held out her hand; and for the longest time Aziraphale did not take it, instead watching the crumpled form of Crowley through the fence, like a condemned man watching the free skies from his prison cell one last time.

"Spirit?" He asked, brokenly. "Shall I… shall I ever see him again?"

"You shall." She answered readily. "Tonight, as a matter of fact. One more lesson do I have to teach you, and two more ghosts await after me. His soul and yours were two of a pair; and thus, his Past, Present and Future are forever tied to yours. You shall know how Anthony J. Crowley fared in his life after you left it, never fear."

Aziraphale did not respond.

Merely took the Spirit's proffered hand, and shed a final tear as the winter scene fell away around them.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The orphanage, again; but so poor now it pained one to see it, in the disrepair, the barren patches of wall where once paintings had hung, and in the drawn, starved face of Novice Ethel, hurrying along the corridor with a solitary, sad candle.

"How many years ago is this, Spirit?" Asked Aziraphale quietly, noting that her habit was now that of a full nun, and the lines carved beneath her wide eyes.

"Twelve," responded the Spirit, following the Sister down the corridor. "The Christmas after Gabriel made you partner at the firm."

There was a terrible banging and pounding at the front door, and some other nuns had been lured from their beds by it as well, all crowded in the hall and awaiting Sister Ethel Taciturn with the keys.

(Doubtless, some children had been awoken as well; but, it being Christmas Eve, they had thought no more on strange sounds, and dreamed of sweets and nuts come the morning.)

Sister Mary - the true Sister, eyes soft and brown rather than aglow - took them from her with a smile that laid her face in worried creases, and made to unlock the door.

And in stumbled Crowley, with a gasp that they may close them again speedily behind him.

Older, now, like the nuns, and no less beautiful for it; but clad in clothes scarcely more than rags, a dark scarf only barely guarding his face and hair from the elements, and the rest of him pitifully shivering.

To his chest, he held a bag, and there was a haunted look to him, a well-founded fear forcing his gaze behind him every few seconds. It was clear at first sight that he was a man hunted, and what he held was the cause of it.

"Anthony!" Exclaimed the Sister Mary that was not the Spirit. "Child, what have you  _ done!?" _

"Nothing so bad, Mother Superior!" A careless smile on that beloved face, a quick kiss to her cheek. "But I cannot tell you, nor stay, for your own protection."

He pressed the bag on her; it was filled to the brim with money, and a pound-note fluttered to the ground as he passed it on.

"Here, take it!" He urged. "Spend it quick, you do not know where it is from, you know of  _ nothing _ , do you understand? Tell the authorities an anonymous donor has been moved by the season, should anyone wonder about how well-fed the orphans look of late."

"We can't-"

"You can." There was a wild, desperate intensity to his words. "For the children, if nothing else."

"Anthony, foolish child!" Snapped Sister Theresa Vocalus from the back of the group. "We sent you to London to meet with Aziraphale, not rob-"

" _ Mr Fell  _ does not entertain beggars." And what a bitter grimace accompanied those words! One could tell Crowley seethed beneath his smile, and Aziraphale flinched to see it. "Or so the clerk at his firm informed me. Give up, Sister. The boy we knew has grown into what they call  _ a respectable member of society _ ; you'll not see a penny from him again. I did what I had to - and trust me, the gentlemen Hastur and Ligur I liberated this from shan't miss it too dearly."

An angry chatter rose from the nuns; all, save for Sister Mary - and Ethel, who had always been of quiet disposition.

"Sisters!" Her voice rose with authority. "You've not heard any sound this night, and know naught of this business. Return to bed, all of you - no, Ethel, put the contents of this bag away, and go pack Anthony's belongings. He'll want for a coat, at least."

As these orders were followed, she stepped close to Crowley and laid a hand upon his bent head.

"May you be blessed." Murmured she. "Near two dozen little lives may eat and be preserved at great cost of yours. You have kept God's Law in spirit, if not letter, and… oh, I wish you were not hounded for it!"

"They shan't catch me, Holy Mother." Crowley assured her gently. "I'm bound for Dover, and the  _ Alpha Centauri  _ on until the States. Even the long arm of the law may not reach so far. I would suggest that the gentlemen may soon forget their pursuit, but that would be the height of foolishness. It is about  _ money, _ after all."

(The word spat like a bad cough's phlegm.)

"And money makes men forget what hearts they have, and turn relentless, as dogs in pursuit of a starving fox. There's no mercy in matters of finance, nor the minds of wealthy men."

"You'll never return, then?"

"It's an unlikelihood."

A moment of silence, broken only by Ethel arriving with a small bundle and the warmest of winter coats that could be found in an establishment so poor as this.

And so, it was already the time for parting words.

"I am grateful, truly grateful," spoke Crowley, and he was so beautiful in the candlelight that Aziraphale took half a step to pull him in his arms, 'ere he thought better of it, "for your kindness, and the home you made for us. I know not what might have become of me otherwise."

"A worse scoundrel than you already are, demon boy." The Sister scoffed; though lovingly so. 

"Go, child, and go with God. Merry Christmas, Anthony."

The greeting returned, and meant with all that was left of the heart Aziraphale had callously shattered and left bleeding in the snow.

"Oh, and…" A last pause at the door, and Aziraphale stepped closer, to hear better the hushed, mournful tone of Crowley's voice. "Should… should Azir- should Mr Fell ever attempt to call upon me, tell him…"

Aziraphale strained. He would listen to all that Crowley might have left him, and keep the words in the empty cavity of his heart-less chest forevermore.

"Tell him…"

"Yes?" He breathed, damnably eager, as if he were decades younger and poorer. "What is it, my dear boy?"

"What am I saying." A bitter chuckle, a shake of the head, snow-wet rust curls flying. "I know he will not call. Farewell."

"No-!" Gasped Aziraphale, but oh, too late.

He had gone beyond his reach, twelve long years ago.

A sniff and a whimper, that Aziraphale was quite startled to find were not of him.

"Ethel, sweetling, no, do not weep." Sister Mary Loquacious drew the young nun into her arms. "It is a glad day. We've funds again, is that not worth a smile?"

No smile deigned to appear.

"At what cost?" Came the quiet response instead. "And… for how long?"

"A great one." Said Sister Mary's voice, but stemming from the Spirit, not the woman, who merely shook her head in mournful silence. "And not even another year 'ere the stolen money is all used up, and even the last generous soul has run dry, so the Order is made to disband; spreading the last savings among the orphans so that they might have some minuscule chance to survive out in the world."

"Oh, but…" Aziraphale whispered helplessly. "No donors? I sent them half my wages every December, did I not?"

"You did." The Spirit agreed. "...for a time. Thirteen Christmases ago at the last, and never again after."

Guilt flooded him, and for a long while he could not speak.

"I…" he finally forced. "I do not think I  _ intended _ to stop. I only did not care to remember one year, and… and such was that, then."

"Such was that." Echoed the Spirit. "And such the poverty and suffering that stemmed from your forgetting, and the crime circumstance forced upon Crowley's soul, and such is his desperate flight from England."

"I see." Aziraphale nodded, chastised. "Spirit, forgive my asking, only… the… the  _ Alpha Centauri _ …"

"Yes?"

"The newspaper… I read, years ago, that she went under two days out of Dover, and…" his voice trembled, on the cusp of breaking. "And with her, all the crew and passengers."

He turned and desperately grasped for the Spirit's habit. "Tell me that it were not true, I beg you."

Eyes of light shone without even a flicker.

"The  _ Alpha Centauri  _ did indeed sink." Came the merciless response. "And not a man on her survived."

A sound like agony, very near a scream, twisting its way through all his bones.

"Oh, Spirit, was it for nothing then?" Aziraphale forced out, terribly pained. "Is it all for nothing? Their struggles, their desperation, the measures taken to stave off cold and hunger for but another year, another day - why do they struggle on so, and… and d-die for it?"

"Love." Answered the Spirit simply. "And the hope their loved ones may see another Christmas. The children of this orphanage lived another year in warmth and feed, and it cost a young man all he had. Such is life, and life in poverty moreso. It is all sacrifice, and some have more to give than others, and may yet spare a few shilling without need to sell their soul for it."

"I think I understand." Aziraphale inclined his head gravely. "I've been a fool, Spirit, in so many things, and have only worsened my condition with age. Only to-day, I sent a young woman away without a penny - should she turn to crime to feed her orphans, too? I could not bear it! I… I can already not..."

A defeated sigh.

"...I merely wish I had not sent her away without a few more pounds in her pocket, that is all."

And the Spirit shone like the sun; and like brilliant, understanding Sister Mary, who had given him a home and happy childhood he had all but cast aside.

"Remember such compassion now," she said firmly, "and mind that you do not forget again."

"Not for as long as I live." Vowed Aziraphale.

  
  
  


And with this solemn promise still on his lips, he jolted to wakefulness in the safe confines of his own bed.

* * *

_ The Esteemed Reader may assume this as the end of some tragic, cautionary tale; and thus, we must inform them of three facts. _

_ Firstly, that two more ghosts still await to visit Aziraphale, and impart on him their lessons. _

_ Secondly, that Spirits of past festivities may not be respectable sources of information, free to choose their answers as vague and misdirecting as they please. _

_ And, thirdly, that Anthony J. Crowley had by no means drowned, and was, in fact, still very much alive. _


	2. Stave 2: The Ghosts of Christmas Present and Yet To Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.  
> 2020 sure has been A Decade-long Year, huh. >soft, exhausted sigh<
> 
> I'm very sorry to everyone who waited for the continuation of this for an entire year... but the comments on Ch1 meant the world to me (thank you all so much!) and I wanted to add a new chapter for everyone who had been waiting for it. This is for you, my Esteemed Readers, I'm sorry it took so long.
> 
> (Mild warning for a sick child/implied potential off-screen child death, as canonical for Christmas Carol.)

Aziraphale staggered to his feet, his very soul a-tremble, leaning heavy upon a nearby bed-post.

A fire had been lit in his chest, ravaging the frozen non-heart he had there, and for the first time in many a year, he shivered under the season, rather than strengthen the cold with his own frigid airs.

Thoughts and plans manifested slowly in him, the Spirit's lessons at work, and he knew, yes, by God, he would forevermore…

Aziraphale's gaze fell through the doorway upon the painting on the mantle; and all his heated humors cooled in a flash.

The archangel did not bear Gabriel's face, no. But it recalled him to Aziraphale, more present than his ghostly visit, hissing words on sentimentality and foolishness into his mind's ear.

It had been a dream! Brought on by the Pulsifer lad's words, the mention of orphans and love blooming into vivid recollections in his dreams, nonsensical, pointless, and full of a whimsy Aziraphale would never possess in the daylight.

Humbug, through and through! Ghost of Christmas Past, bah, what use was it to dwell on what had once been?

Aziraphale scoffed quietly, and cast aside all rash thoughts that had beset his mind in the feverish seconds between waking and wakefulness.

(New hoarfrost crept upon the windowpanes at this, though Aziraphale took no notice.)

He would drown these irrationalities in drink and go abed once more, forgetting the night-terrors of-

_ Ding-dong! _ , chimed all the church bells in London town once more, louder even than on the first instance; and Aziraphale need not count to know there were twelve strokes.

And then, quiet, gentle, and yet clear: two more.

Terror gripped Aziraphale, fingers white on the mahogany of the bed-post. He dared not turn.

And yet, he did, the two chimes calling in his chest; and beheld the Second Spirit.

"Madame!?" He startled.

Where the First had been ethereal, shapeless, ever-fading light, the Second was of an almost startling solidity, more real, perhaps, than all the world; and her face was quite easy to discern, and easier recognised.

Madame Tracy was a woman known to all of London, or at least to the male half of it, as she would often joke. She held a prospering  _ establishment _ at the edge of town, and for every upstanding Christian that crossed the street at sight of her, there were a dozen of less privileged standing who greeted her with warmth, and received it in return.

(The Esteemed Reader is advised not to hold how she earned her daily bread against her; neither did Aziraphale, who thought of her profession no worse than of the greengrocer. Both provided goods and service, diligently and according to demand, and detestable were only those that were wasteful where they need not be, and purchased from them with nary a care for more lucrative ventures. And Tracy kept as fine a house as such could be, making little trouble and caring well for her girls, with a shrewd eye and sense for business Aziraphale could not help but diligently respect.)

Only, this creature was visibly not the true Madame, and not only in how it seemed far too real and present in the world.

The pelt draped about her was far too fine, far too rich; and through her hair were woven many branches of holly, heavy with succulent berries.

"The Ghost Of Christmas Present." She corrected kindly. "But you may address me by the name of the face I carry in your eyes, Aziraphale."

"Another lesson, then." He muttered crossly. "Has your predecessor not tortured me enough? No thumbscrews, Spirit? Matches, at least, to burn me at the stake?"

The Madame laughed, like the crackle of a merry fireplace.

"You'll have no torture from me, dearie. The regrets of the past have taught you all they ever may;  _ I _ am to show you the plentiful opportunities of the  _ present _ season, that you may not amass more of the same."

A mournful glance to the decanter; and then, resignation, and a curt nod.

Her hand in his, and away they were.

* * *

Such a table, the Esteemed Reader had surely never seen.

It creaked and groaned below the weight of its dishes, laden with delicacies and good, humble fare alike, rich creams and good meats and heaps of fruit, a veritable cornucopia to be washed down with an ever-flowing river of wine.

The decadent feasts of Mount Olympus could surely hold no candle to such a display, and Aziraphale's poor stomach, fed on gruel and inedible coin, growled most pitifully at the sight.

At this rich table sat near three-score women and men of more or less ill repute, clothed as finely as could be afforded - which was not overly so - merrily feasting and passing forth and back tales of customers and friends alike.

And there, at the head of the table, surveying the feast, sat the Madame Tracy - though there was no holly entwined with her hair, and here was a patch on her clothing, there a blemish on her skin, which imbued her with an air of simple humanity that was both less and infinitely more than the Spirit at Aziraphale's right-hand side.

And yet, there was something of that spirit in her, and in the merriment of the entire company; that was the Spirit of Christmas Present, and where there is laughter in the world to-night, there is that spirit also.

It was crude company, more vice than virtue among the assembled - and yet, the Spirit's eye fell upon them with naught but approval.

"Spirit, you cannot mean to teach me a lesson here!" Aziraphale squawked, quietly appalled. It was not their professions who inspired such contempt, but the wasteful way in which they did away with their hard-earned coin in this celebration of sheer decadence. Christmas pudding, and goose, and a dozen dishes more, wine overflowing?

Bah, feasting! Bah, wastrels! Bah, humbug!

"The lesson I mean to impart to you could not be taught better in any other place." Said the Spirit, and her hair was as a crackling fire so warm and bright. "Observe."

"And what am I meant to see?" Aziraphale groused, his sour demeanour that of a busy man pulled from his bedstead twice a night, and with scarcely a morsel of patience left. "Drunkards? Bacchus in his element? A year's hard earnings, as a wine-spill in the gutter, so that these beggars might crawl back into it to-morrow?"

Disapproval coloured the Spirit's gaze, strange on the Madame's warm, ever-accepting face.

"Can you truly not see?" She asked.

Aziraphale observed the true Madame's laughter, high and bright, settling on hand on Mr Shadwell's arm - had he not campaigned against her den of sin, a fortnight past? - and coaxing something old and gnarled that might perhaps once have been a smile from him.

He observed the genuine laughter, the sharing of plates, companionship unparalleled on any other day in the calendar year.

"See what?" Said Aziraphale, turning his nose up at it all - even as a gentle voice spoke in the void that ought be his heart,  _ "you know well what". _

"You have blinded yourself, my dear." Sighed the spirit, catching his arm and drawing him away from the feast - and oh how strange that part of him longed to stay! "Poured gold dust upon your eyes, so that they be closed to all other sights. I must show it to you purer, plainer, and perhaps then - perhaps then!"

* * *

  
  


Aziraphale might have argued - but lo and behold, gone was the Madame's House of Pleasures, and they stood together in a lonely courtyard, occupied only by...

"Children!?" Exclaimed Aziraphale. "Urchins? What is this, Spirit?"

"The orphans in Miss Anathema Device's care." The Spirit responded, gazing upon them with honey-sweetness. "She keeps a better house for them than most, and has put near all her family's fortune to the aid of the poor, raising funds now that her own shall soon run dry. No, do not mock her for this kindness, now!"

Aziraphale closed his mouth with a snap.

"Only watch, and see."

Grimly, sourly, he turned to observe the children at play…

And oh! What joy in those youthful faces! What merriment in their games!

Their poverty did naught to hinder them - a twig should be the tin soldier, then, and a lump of coal the horse, and two-dozen stones his regiment - and a peculiar warmth crept unto Aziraphale as he observed their games. He felt near a child again, to see their dirty faces break apart in laughter, and their too-thin hands clutch their toys - what fun! What fun!

Though the children did not see him, he knelt to observe closer, to learn their names and those they had made for their stories, each burning themselves upon his heart like a brand, never to be forgotten.

And should he lie on his deathbed, Aziraphale would ne'er forget young Pepper and her Company of Brave Women, which she led to charge upon the Red Rider; or Brian, playing a drum fashioned of a hollow log; or, indeed, little Wensley, practicing his letters with only a stick and the dirt on the ground.

Such joy, dear Reader, Aziraphale had never seen before - though that was a fault of his, for it may be found in any child entertaining revelries among their peers, and was, indeed, harboured in his own heart 'ere he scraped away all memory of it and hardened his soul against such indulgences.

He sat with the children for a time of some length, surely an hour, a day, or perhaps an age; and to hear these orphans recite their wishes to Father Christmas both saddened and filled his heart with glee.

And yet, and yet...

"Forgive me, Spirit, but I can find no true joy to-night, not even in such honest, heartfelt merriment." Aziraphale murmured wretchedly, rising from the circle of children. "I've received word of… of the long-ago death of one I held most dear once; and do not believe I shall smile again for many a year yet. Have you not compassion enough to understand such?"

"Memories are more often than not lies we care to remember as truth." Madame Tracy responded evenly. "I see the Now clearly, and tell you: he lives."

He lives! Oh, what simple words, carelessly cast between them, and yet, none had ever gladdened him so before!

"What!" Aziraphale cried. "Crowley, alive!? No, it cannot be! The  _ Alpha Centauri  _ sank without a trace. Cruel Spirits, mock me not!"

"Ah, but never did he set foot onto her, dear." The Spirit regarded him kindly with Tracy's matronly eye. "He gave the Sisters a destination, so that, mayhaps, they might send his pursuers onto one path, as he might disappear down another."

"He lives!" Breathed Aziraphale in wonder, scarcely taking the meaning of her other words.

"Under another name, another life; but yes. Live he does."

"Where?" He begged her eagerly, even reaching for her hands 'ere he thought better than to clasp them in his. "I must know, Spirit! Tell me, I beg of you, and I shall go where'er you wish, and heed your lessons as well I can, oh, please!"

"I may do better than tell you." Her smile was red as berry jam, and twice so sweet.

Scarcely had she extended her hand that Aziraphale grasped at it hurriedly, as the drowning man for the life-preserver.

A last peal of laughter rang out from the children, and the scene went to wind around them.

* * *

A room steeped in gloom and silence, a far cry from the joy before; the dark grime of London out the window, and creeping in over the last faded patches of wallpaper.

Sickness and herbs mingled in the air, only barely held warm by a small brazier in the far corner, burning a few pitiful pieces of coal.

A sick-room, and poorer than most; though there was the suggestion of past wealth in the dimensions, and the fine stitching on the ragged quilt covering the only bed.

"Spirit, what is this?" Aziraphale spoke silently, in deference to the sombre ambience. "Crowley-"

"Lives here, under another name." The Spirit inclined her head.

"And-"

Whatever had been his intention to say, it was halted by the creak of the door, and entry of a figure.

For a single breathless moment, Aziraphale thought it Crowley.

Alas, no. A woman, face hardly discernible in the dark, and in her arms…

"A child?" Whispered Aziraphale, heart trembling in his chest. "He has a son? And this - his wife!?"

"The Nanny. An old friend of the lady of this house, caring for the little ones."

Plural! Aziraphale's heart ought not break, and yet it did. That Crowley had moved on so thoroughly!

"They've naught to pay her, of course; she stays out of love, putting all her meagre earnings to the children, whom she adores as if they were her own."

The Nanny laid the boy onto the bed, drawing the covers warm about him, and Aziraphale stepped closer, watching that pale face over her shoulder.

(There was little he could see of the father in him; a fine nobility of features, gold hair a halo upon the pillow, round cheeks redeemed by fever. He was surely the very picture of the mother, and another sting to Aziraphale's heart at the thought of Crowley by the side of some fair maiden, of good standing but fallen on hard times, as the impoverishment of their housing indicated; surely, she had never spoken a singular cruel word to the man, a better companion than Aziraphale might ever have hoped to be.

Crowley had done well for himself, and Aziraphale's heart broke to think it.)

The child coughed weakly, and then harder, a terrible rattle in that little chest; the Nanny hurried to pull him upright, cradling the boy's form like a precious thing, murmuring words of caring to his hair.

(Her voice, Aziraphale noted, was low and Scottish.)

"Spirit, pray tell, what ails this child?" He asked shakily, and feared the answer. "Surely, only a winter cold, easily shaken?"

"Easy, if food and fuel and medicine can be afforded." Answered the Spirit sadly. "There is no abundance of funds in this house, surely this is obvious."

"Hush, dear." The coughing had abated, and the Nanny lowered the boy gently to the pillows once more. "Breathe, and all shall be well."

Elegant hands petting dampened curls, tucking blankets tighter about the shivering form.

"You'll be much improved by the morrow, Adam, mind my words."

"M'glad, Nanny." Whispered the child, faint but with the indomitable spirit of the young not yet aware of their own mortality. "I asked Father Christmas for a dog, d'you-" another little cough "-do you s'pose he might bring me one t'morrow?"

"Of course, dear." A gentle smile from Nanny, though her eyes were hidden by glasses that reflected the firelight disadvantageously, and there was tightness in the line of her brow that indicated a closeness to tears. "Of course."

"An' he'll be small an' white, with black spots!"

"So he will."

"An' have one strange ear, an' I'll call 'im Dog."

"A wonderful choice, sweetling."

"I'll play with 'im all day, forever an' ever!"

"Yes." At this, the Nanny turned her head from him, and Aziraphale saw a tear slide down her sharp cheekbone. "You will, my darling."

"Spirit, pray tell me," Aziraphale breathed, his trembling hand not daring enough to touch her fine furs. "The child,  _ his  _ child, sweet little Adam… will he live?"

The Ghost of Christmas Present laid her warm gaze upon him, and her mournful response shone from her deep, dark eyes, like blackberries in winter, long 'ere she ever voiced it.

"Barring a miracle," she spoke, in the Madame's gentle voice, "the boy will never wake to-morrow."

"Ah, I had feared that! I had feared it!" Aziraphale cried, and, his legs denying support, sank back against the soot-stained wallpaper. "Is there no kindness in this world, that such precious innocence must die afore his time!?"

"Kindness is made, Aziraphale," the stern retort. "It is made, and chosen, and given. Have you not chosen otherwise all those years, turning your face away from all the coughing urchins in the streets?"

"I have! May God judge me for it! And yet, at this hour, all the kindness on earth could not preserve this life!" Fury burst forth from Aziraphale's empty chest, hollowed by grief, and foul, bitter guilt. "A miracle, you say! If God's hand is not moved, if She has no mercy, the child will… the child… oh, what is man to do on earth, when the die has long since been taken in that immortal hand, and cast? What are we to do?"

"Love." The Spirit said, as if it were all simplicity and idle airs. "We are to love, Aziraphale, and to be kind when God Above cannot be."

"Kindness I shall attempt, but Love…" a heavy sigh, "oh Spirit, 'tis too late for me to love."

"Never too late!" The Spirit insisted sharply, and her hand, warm as if heated by fire's glow, closed soft and tight around his trembling fingers. "Oh, my child, never! The Past is done, Future uncertain. But observe!"

And she drew him to the child's bed again, where young Adam lay near asleep, breath rattling feebly in that narrow chest, and lids heavy with Morpheus' final approach.

The Nanny was singing him a lullaby; and as the song came towards its end, from her waistcoat she drew a toy made from cloth, and settled it into the crook of the boy's arm.

The Spirit urged Aziraphale closer, and the toy revealed its shape to be that of a little dog, black and white both, one cloth-ear crooked and button-eyes wide and kind, made nicely, yet cheaply.

Only scarce hours ago, Aziraphale Fell should have regarded such foolish waste of money with naught but derision, mocking the Nanny for making such expenses on behalf of a child that would be beyond the veil by this hour to-morrow - and good riddance! Good riddance!

Now, he wept to see thin, grime-dusted fingers close around the little dog, a tremulous smile on blood-stained lips, and praised the woman's kind heart.

"I see now!" He gasped, and clutched the Spirit's hands. "I see! I wandered among the feasting loose women, the laughing orphan children, and did not understand - that I should at last find comprehension here, at the sickbed of my one love's son! - I see it now, that kindness is born in the Present, and every moment precious, in poverty asmuch as riches! For where there is love and earnest joy, the most humble Christmas is made a great feast!"

And the Spirit laughed, with glee and jolly tidings ringing as threescore silver bells in her; around her, a warmth and light, to keep the dark at bay on this most Holy night; and chestnut smoke, with the gentle steam of mulled wine, seemed as if to chase away the damp odour of sickness in the room.

"At last!" Spoke she, triumphantly. "Blind eyes do yet see! Aziraphale, rejoice, there might be hope for you yet!"

"Truly?" Aziraphale breathed - and hope broke through the hardened carapace of his heart, as spring-blossoms broke through the thick blanket of snow.

"Truly."

And at this word, Aziraphale sank to the floor in breathless relief, closing his weary eyes for only an instant -

\- and opened them again not to that strangely warm sickroom, but to the cold of his own bed.

* * *

  
  
  


"...a dream?" Aziraphale cast back the covers, trembling with such force he could scarcely strike the match to his night-light, long extinguished by the bitter cold. "A dream! But oh too real!"

No longer could he deride it as baseless fancies, no more would the voice of Gabriel turn his heart away again - He had learned! And how bitter the lesson!

Yet he was better for it, and would shape himself into a much improved man. His soul soared as if carried on angel's wings, thoughts a-flutter as he paced the darkened bed-room, plans beyond count forming within him - a donation of a hundred pounds to the poor! Give Pulsifer the day and half a guinea to woo his Miss Device! Go forth into the streets and spread God's Love to all!

So full of elation was he, that the first peal of distant churchbells all but passed him by; yet louder and louder they grew, and with every ringing, Aziraphale's weightless spirit felt the chains curl tighter all about his form.

Had he not endured torture enough? Was he not readied to attempt redemption? How much more?

The 12th peal, then silence.

One more chime, so quiet, so gentle, brought Aziraphale to his knees.

Another, his night-light clattering on the floorboards.

And with the third chime, ringing most peculiarly in the air, the Third Spirit entered Aziraphale's abode.

No light shone about the Third, and no warmth around it; no familiar face, no welcoming word, no feasts or joyful tidings.

Shrouded in darkness and shadow stood a cloaked figure, hood drawn low and head bowed deep - and all Aziraphale felt upon beholding it was dread, as a child shies away from the wraiths in the night, seeing a horror yet beyond his comprehension.

This Phantom stood solemn and grave before him, and neither did it speak nor move; yet Aziraphale knew well its purpose.

"You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, I take it." He spoke at last, a great weariness settling upon his heart. "And have arrived to show me what darkness the future holds?"

No answer, safe that the Spirit inclined its dark head a fraction - and motioned with one spectral hand for Aziraphale to follow.

He feared this spirit more than any other that had visited him on this terrible Christmas night, feared the ghostly eyes that surely must be watching him beneath that cowl, that merciless gaze - and yet he went, as if drawn by invisible strings towards it, and the lesson it would impart upon him.

"H-honoured Spirit, forgive my cowardly demeanour!" He stammered, taking one uncertain step forward. "I have learned well enough that these nightly apparitions intend only to shape me to a better man, to lay bare my flaws and guide me towards betterment - so I shall follow you, and see all you put before me - but I fear, too, Spirit. I fear greatly! Will you not speak, to ease my fears?"

But the Spirit spoke not.

Only motioned once more for him to follow.

So, without reassurance, Aziraphale went.

(His only hope was the words of the First Spirit, which had stayed with him throughout this darkest night of his soul: that his and Crowley's fate were as one, and that, perchance, he would see a brighter future for his love, if not himself.)

* * *

  
  
  


They did not simple appear in another place, but did indeed pass out into the streets, to walk with a heavy tread to where'er they were bound.

Dark were the streets, near as night with the snow-heavy clouds above, and deserted. Even in his night-dress, Aziraphale did not feel the winter cold - though his very soul shivered terribly, and he drew his arms about him to ward against ice that he felt within him.

Often did he ask where they were bound, and never did the Spirit offer response.

They passed by the grocer's who had begged Aziraphale to lend him only a modest sum - dark the windows, wood nailed across them, and a lease to let pasted to the door.

Guilt churned harsh and forbidding in Aziraphale's gut, and he made as if to hurry past; yet the spectral hand, though it did not touch him, rose and halted his pace.

Those blackened, empty windows watched him pass slowly, oh so slowly, as the hollowed skull observes the worm crawl past - and it was not to be the last reminder of misdeeds for Aziraphale.

They passed through the orphanage's courtyard, where the children had played - but empty now, the letters struck from the gate, and in grave disrepair the building - and strangely, Aziraphale thought he should rather have seen his own firm in bankruptcy than this.

"Spirit?" Breathed he, over the howling of the winter storm. "Is there no life in this dark future? Are there no people to be seen?"

The Sinister Apparition did not speak - but halted at a darkened window.

One wave of its specter-hand drew aside the curtains; and oh!

"Pulsifer!" Aziraphale cried. "Why, Spirit, that is my clerk in there! Newton Pulsifer - but what's this? The longer I regard him, the less he seems the same man- so tired, so haggard- and look, he takes up a bottle! Pulsifer never drank - does he appear at work in such a state?

…

...no, it is plain that he does not, so threadbare his clothes, so poor his humble abode… and there, on his table, letters begging for a position! Any position! Oh Heavens, poor Newton! Poor, poor Newton! Oh Spirit, I see him weep in there! And he was such a faithful lad, hard-working and earnest - why did I ever speak of letting him go? Whyever cut his pay? My clerk, I call him - but is he not more than that? Oh, what have I done!"

Aziraphale ripped himself away from the window with force, shielding his eyes from so sad a sight.

"So this is what is to come?" He moaned in despair. "I shudder to think what will have become of Crowley in this ghastly time! Is that what I will have to see at last, Spirit?"

The Ghost made as little answer as it had ever made, but trod onwards through the snow, beckoning Aziraphale to follow.

It led him to a graveyard; and that was his worst fears made true.

"I fear to read the names writ upon these gravestones." Aziraphale whispered, keeping pace with the Spirit. "Mayhaps I will recognise one, and their death I may have… I may have… God forgive me, though I fear She never could!"

He halted.

"Spirit! We are not alone! Who stands there among the graves, among the storm? Wait a moment, I shall go and see…"

Aziraphale hurried along the gravel path among the dead, away from the Phantom, towards the one living figure far and wide… who seemed to grow evermore familiar as he drew closer.

It was the Nanny who had sat in that impoverished hovel by a dying child's bedside; and Aziraphale's heart broke to see her in mourning garb, her dress of near the same cloth as the Spirit's, so dark and heavy around her form.

The wind and the snow danced about her, and Aziraphale had never seen a woman so regal in her deepest grief; she humbled him once more, this nameless woman, face hidden beneath a dense-meshed veil, who had no furs to shield her from the cold, scarcely pennies to her name, and was yet so rich in spirit.

She was clutching a toy dog to her chest, as she stood there among the snow-blanketed graves, and sang a lullaby for one who had gone to death afore their time, and whose eternal bed lay unmarked among the other pauper children.

"No miracle, then." Aziraphale whispered, over the howling of the wind. "Oh, Spirit, what a dark future this is!"

The Phantom - at his side once more - gave no answer.

"Pray tell me… is what I see only how things  _ might _ be? Is it yet possible to turn the tides of fate?"

Silence.

"I must know- have I been changed enough already by this night to set another course?"

Silence once more.

"And… and might not a miracle still…"

Aziraphale trailed off.

"What a dark future!" He whispered, brokenly. "What a dark world!"

And then he wept; for the future, for the world, and for himself.

Yet the Spirit would not leave him to his tears: its spectral hand rose again, to guide Aziraphale's gaze along the path the nanny had trod in leaving.

There was an open grave there not so far away, its stone set in place, patiently awaiting its eternal occupant - and as she passed it, this proud woman Aziraphale admired so made a gesture as if she was to stagger and fall, overcome by great emotion.

Then she righted herself, as if nothing had befallen her, and continued on the narrow foot-path, the snow enveloping her in a grave-shroud of her own.

"What more?" Aziraphale's chest was as if scraped of all feeling, a crypt in which his heart was laid to rest in a shroud of grief. "What more would you have of me? My eyes have been opened to all the wrongs I have committed unto others, and I would give my very life to right them! What else have I left? What else, I beg you!"

Once more, the Spirit gave no answer but a motion towards that other grave, dark and forbidding.

"Is it… is it  _ his _ grave? Oh, is that why she near as fell?" Aziraphale cried out in despair. "Spirit, torment me no longer! Let me part from this world 'ere I see that beloved name hewn in stone - or another name, since he has become as a stranger to me! Drag me to Hell this very instant, but let my immortal soul part from a world in which the one I love lives on!"

No answer. A motion, more forceful.

And Aziraphale, having lost all mastery he had over his shaking limbs, obeyed.

If he must stand before Crowley's grave to be released of this terrible haunting, then so be it...

But oh! Oh horror!

The name written upon that lonely waiting grave was his own.

AZIRAPHALE FELL stood written there, and Aziraphale recoiled to read it! Dead! He? Dead, too, in this dreary place!

And from the open grave, there echoed voices - young and old, high and low, but all cold as the frost:

_ "I wish he had died sooner, and rid the world of his cruelty." _

_ "All that money! And what use was it, in the end?" _

_ "Do you think he had any regrets in the end, safe that he had not hoarded more gold for himself? Do you think he had dreams once? No, no, neither do I." _

_ "No mourners. I had not expected any." _

_ "I shan't miss him. And nor shall any other." _

And then, a whisper, near toneless, yet instantly familiar, saying only, full of old grief:

_ "Oh, angel…" _

It brought Aziraphale to his knees in an instant.

"Mercy! Oh, please!" In blind desperation, he clutched the hem of the Spirit's robe, which was as a cloth of smoke and mist betwixt his fingers. "Spirit, I am not the man I was, I shall never be that man again, he  _ repulses _ me now! Kind Spirit, see the truth of it written upon my heart, and turn your face towards me - surely, there are benevolent eyes gazing out 'neath that hood? Spirit! Spirit, I beg you, a morsel of kindness, the shadow of a smile! Or I shall surely perish of despair! Have my tortures not earned such a small mercy?"

The Phantom's spectral hand trembled… and rose, slowly, towards its hood.

And the cloth fell from the Spirit's face - and lo! It was the child Adam, with eyes as dark as the grave, and a demonic light shining on all his gaunt, skeletal features.

"No!" Cried Aziraphale in despair, shrinking back. "Oh, no, no! God help me!"

SHE CANNOT HELP YOU HERE, spoke the child, and his voice was Death. THE FUTURE IS NOT SET IN STONE; YET YOU, NOT GOD, ARE ITS MASON. THIS DARK WORLD WAS MADE BY YOUR OWN DESIGN; AND SHOULD HAVE BEEN INEVITABLE, HAD WE GHOSTS NOT INTERVENED.

THIS LESSON IS WHAT YOU EARNED IN YOUR WRETCHED LIFE, AZIRAPHALE, AND NOTHING MORE.

Aziraphale cried once more in anguish, scrambling away from that sinister apparition; 'til the ground gave way underneath the soles of his threadbare slippers, and he tumbled backwards into the open grave.

Then all was shadow, and the wet odour of decay.

"Oh God," wept Aziraphale, turning his eyes to gaze back - only to see blackness where there ought be light. "Lord Almighty, mercy, mercy!"

No answer came from the darkness.

"Not for me, my Lord, not for me, oh, I have been a wicked, ghastly man, judge me justly and cast me unto Hell, but, oh God, oh Holy Mother…" His face was wet with tears, and trembling hands folded in prayer. "The child, Lord, have mercy on this child, let him live! Take my years and may he live them, spread my fortune among the poor! Waste no more hours on my wretched self, I have only ever brought pain upon those that love me with every breath I draw, so let them fill a more deserving chest!"

Aziraphale fell to his knees, and bowed deep before Her as one offering his head before the executioner's axe.

"God, have mercy for the poor, for the children, for the deserving - take my flintstone sinner's soul and scrape it from my body, so that it may be an instrument for Your Kindness 'til its frail joints are all ground to dust, please-"

And as he raised his face heavenward, the darkness gave way once more to gleaming light…

...and that light was the morning sun, which fell in a beam through the master bedroom's window until it alighted upon the bed in which Aziraphale had slept so fitfully this Christmas night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my Dickensian English has worsened terribly... but ah well, what can you do. It's been a busy year, and most of this was written just this week.
> 
> Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/An Enjoyable Winter Time to you all! At this point, I can make no promises regarding the conclusion and happy end (WHICH WILL ARRIVE EVENTUALLY), but I'll try at least to deliver in a shorter time than yet another year.
> 
> Please do leave a comment, I'm so grateful for each and every one, and love you all for them!  
> ^-^ <3

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it for the first half! (Third...?)  
> Let me tell you, even this paltry imitation of Dickensian English is terrible time-intensive to write...
> 
> Do leave a comment or kudos if you've enjoyed - and Merry Christmas once more!


End file.
